


An alternate point of view

by Act_Naturally



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deviates From Canon, Fix-It, No character bashing, Reincarnation, Self-Insert, Time Travel, many more characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2020-12-09 17:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20998838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Act_Naturally/pseuds/Act_Naturally
Summary: There’s a reincarnated time traveller loose in Hogwarts. She’s meddling with politics and Horcruxes just to start with, and the fallout is spreading across Britain. Some of her plans work and the outcome is good, even if there are side effects. Others go so wrong it’s almost like someone is out to get her.





	1. Not a time machine

**Author's Note:**

> The OC-dropped-into-Harry-Potter-universe stories have a problem. They usually focus on the character’s reactions and relationships as she explores the brave new world. But this premise does not make a plot, and without one, the story meanders around with no direction until it’s abandoned.  
But this trope has a lot of potential to be fun and have major effects on the plot and other characters. So that’s the challenge: write the story from everyone else’s point of view.  
I started this four years ago, before the mobile game or Cursed Child were released, so it’s not compliant with those. It also deviates from book canon early on because, yeah, time travel.

“Candidate located.”

The inventor jerked back to alertness. “Right. Who’ve we got?”

“Australian female, born in 1997 to a Mediterranean mother and father of British ancestry, two generations removed. Died in 2084 from the American Plague. Minimal social media usage for her socioeconomic group resulted in relatively low coverage of information. Generic interests and hobbies, except an odd fondness for pineapple that appears to predate Big Data.”

“Relevant information, Alexa,” he rolled his eyes.

The AI interface opened a smaller file. “Major milestones: started expressing doubt in time travel paradoxes in 2013, graduated high school 2014, Bachelor of Science in 2018 –”

“Physics?” The inventor’s hand hovered over the kill switch.

“No, sir.”

“Oh, good.” He had better things to do than argue with another one of those.

Alexa continued. “Peak engagement with sci-fi media and disillusionment with time travel tropes in 2023.”

The inventor checked the chronometer. It was currently 2019. A few years too early, but hopefully close enough. “Bring her in.”

“At once, sir.”

A green loading bar flashed up on the HUD. The automatic calibration processes started jerking the unconscious avatar around like a puppet.

“Link established,” Alexa announced.

The avatar collapsed. She’d be out for a while.

“Locked on congruent location. Transferring to 1870 now.”

The inventor nodded absently, opening a cascade of displays. To the untrained or unobservant, they might appear to form a hall of mirrors with reflections bouncing off each side out to infinity.

The girl regained equilibrium and she shook her head, staring around uneasily. The inventor could understand why; the simulation was a bit off. There was no ground or temperature to be felt or any physical sensations besides light nausea. It was unnaturally silent, and the colours bled into green flashes in the peripheries.

“Don’t touch that.”

The girl jumped and snatched her hand back from the nearest display, and then she just stared.

“Come over here,” the inventor gestured impatiently, curling his primary feathers in a way that the inflexible shafts would have rendered impossible in a physical body.

She looked at him, then back at herself and she stared some more. “Why am I a frog?”

“That’s your avatar,” the inventor tried to contain his impatience. They had video games in the early Anthropocene, these people had no excuse for being so slow to catch on. “I didn’t know who you’d be, so I selected something gender-neutral.”

“Um. Right. Where are we?”

“A consciousness-only dimension. A better question is ‘when?’” A sweeping gesture pulled up one of the video feeds to the HUD. “Does this look like the 1870s to you?”

The frog blinked in bewilderment, eye flicking between screens and the admittedly overwhelming amount of information. “I dunno.”

The inventor frowned, then shrugged. “Well, no one’s wearing a toga. That’s a promising start.”

He started browsing for a good setting, sending images flying around the space almost too fast to process.

“Is each one of those a different time-period? Timeline?” the girl asked, catching on at last. Well, to some extent.

“No, I set the time coordinate already. Those are different places. I’m trying to find a good origin story for you. Can’t give you abject poverty, you’d never get anywhere. But a little tragedy can make things interesting, how about an orphanage? No, that’s too cliché.”

“So, you’re saying this is a _time machine_?”

Oh for – “What type of amateur do you take me for? What use is a machine that only travels through one dimension? For goodness sake, you know the Earth _moves_, yes? What’s the point of going back a hundred years if we can’t get to where the planet was a century ago as well? This beauty can hop through time, all three special dimensions, and a few more for extra spice.”

Time machine, pah! What a science fair project.

“Which country do you want? Keep in mind that the closer your genetic relationship, the smoother it will be,” the eagle asked. “Please say Belgium, there’s some serious potential for poetic justice there. Ooh, or France.”

“What for?” she remained suspicious.

“Just pick something, or _I’ll_ do it,” he threatened.

“Italy,” she said.

The inventor frowned at the HUD menu. Italy was the worst. Far too many microtransactions just to licence the use of the cheese brands, alone. “I disconnected the Italian expansion pack. Try again.”

“Wait, what?”

“Come on, we don’t have all day.” Which was a lie. Technically, time had no meaning here, but it’s a useful figure of speech when you have other things you’d rather be doing.

“Malta?”

“Huh. You know, I only got that one because of the discount. Never thought that’d come in handy,” he said. He flicked through the gene pool for the closest branch to find her new parents. “This man is a carpenter. His wife is a glassblower. And I’m not sure what this guy does but I’m pretty sure it’s not legal in any time-zone.”

“Okay?”

“Direct bloodline, only a few generations back. They’re very closely related to you. Oh – er – and to each other. That’s the perils of island life for you,” the eagle shrugged. “Right, your job is simple. You’ve just got to find Hitler and kill him. If you’re lucky he’ll be a baby.”

The girl was shocked beyond words. She croaked.

He graciously pretended not to hear. “Now, there’s a small margin of error on the time and place, but I think I’ve got it pretty close this time.”

“_This_ time?”

“If it’s after 1914 you’ll have a bit of trouble, and if Hitler’s already in power… well you’ll be in good company with every other guy who’s trying to off him. Best of luck.”

Alexa’s HUD cheerfully informed him of a sudden spike in brain activity. The girl had hit her threshold for befuddlement and tipped into panic. Heaving breathing, clammy hands, thumping chest – the haptic processors would send it all back to her mind and create a feedback loop. He really needed to fix that, but unfortunately, minds tend to cause the same glitches no matter what body they inhabit. 

The inventor tapped his foot. There was no point continuing when she was so panicked she wouldn’t hear nor see him. A graphic showed the scope of the problem: her senses were focused inwards, her perception was entirely drowned out by an internal monologue.

Oddly, as she hit a serious level of anxiety, her brain lit up with patterns associated with reassurance and familiarity. Not a rare occurrence, then. She fell back to a hyperalert state, stress still flooding her mind, but perception back online.

Ugh, now for the denial stage. What would she start spouting first? He’d put even odds on dream and coma, with a garnishing of ‘but science says’ given her degree of choice, as if scientists had learnt all there was to know about the universe by the 21st century.

But denial was a very short-lived indulgence. She gathered herself. He could practically see her bundle the emotion and shelve it for later, preparing to roll with the punches.

“I can’t stop a war. Even if I kill Hitler. It was caused by complicated social and political factors. If he doesn’t start it, someone else will.” Considering her state of mind, it was not surprising that her first protest was not the most relevant.

“Yeah, but it’ll stop people asking me to kill Hitler,” the eagle said. “Ever since I built this thing, that’s all anyone’s talked about.”

“Why don’t _you_ do it then?”

“No way,” the inventor jerked back. “I do virtual reality wars only. I don’t want to get shot for real.”

The girl pinched the bridge of her nose and only succeeded in smothering herself with the webbing between her enormous fingers. She took a deep breath, which didn’t help. “Why’re you putting this on me? Get yourself a volunteer, I’m sure there’s plenty of wannabe heroes.”

“Tried it. Didn’t work,” he shrugged. There seemed to be an unfortunate negative correlation between have the willingness to volunteer and the intelligence required to carry out the task. So now things were by invitation only. “Your name was entered into a random raffle of people who expressed online at some point that they don't believe in that rubbish about time travel paradoxes and are thus, not useless to me. Yours was drawn. Congratulations.”

“Huh. What're the chances.”

“One in 49127. Minus sixteen.”

“Sixteen?”

“So far. My early attempts were less precise, but now I can get someone where I want them with an accuracy of 0.5 micro per cent,” he swelled with pride. He’d increased the precision by three orders of magnitude with the last update.

“Of what?” she said, numbly, counting on her fingers. “The age of the universe? That’s like seventy years.”

From his perspective, it was even longer, but she didn’t have to be so rude about it.

“It’s a big universe. I’d like to see you do better,” he scowled. “You should be thankful you landed in the right epoch. The last bloke ended up in the late Pleistocene.”

She blinked.

“But I’m sure he’s having fun,” he hastened to add. He entered his PayPal details and initiated the girl’s file transfer. Terms and conditions, licencing agreement, yeah tick or whatever. There, job done.

“That’s Freddie Mercury,” the girl called from across the space. She watched a pub band get a standing ovation. The singer smiled and good lord he needed dental work.

“Who?”

“You serious? I’m glad we’re not visiting the future or wherever you’re from. Queen started releasing albums in the 1970s. You’re too late, the war is over.”

“Damn it. You couldn’t’ve figured that out earlier?” the inventor groaned. Now he had to find another person. At least it wasn’t a complete waste. Each test helped him fine-tune the machine. He was so close. “Oh well, I’m sure I’ll get it next time. I suppose you’re off the hook.”

“Such a shame,” she muttered, looking much more cheerful. “If we’re done here, how do you feel about going back a few more millions of years?”

“No.”

“Come on! I’m not asking to tour the entire Age of Reptiles. How about a snippet of the Cretaceous? Just a peak?”

“Not a chance.”

She groaned. “You’re telling me I’m in a time machine–” the inventor twitched, “–that can go anywhere, and all I get to see is slightly older people? People, mind you, who had video cameras and recorded themselves? I’ve already seen that stuff.”

“Not like this, you haven’t.” He couldn’t help himself. The proper application of present tense could burst even the most persistent bubble. Her head jerked up. If she had a bad feeling, his next words would remove all doubt. “Well, this was a bust. I’m off.”

“You’re leaving me here? No way, put me back!”

“Are you kidding? It cost me a month’s wages in fuel just to pick you up the first time. Nah, bro, you’re on your own.”


	2. Achieving KPIs right off the bat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our time traveller starts seeing some results. That's got to be 8/10 KPIs, solid effort, girl.

**September 1982**

Arthur Weasley scanned the Prophet but his attention focused over the top than focusing on the paper. Molly sat with their baby girl on her lap, trying to convince Ginny to eat her greens. Fred and George conspired over the remaining bacon and sequestered it under the table for a later purpose that surely only they could imagine, thinking their parents safely occupied. Normally, Bill or Charlie would be on top of their antics, but the Express had taken Bill to Hogwarts just the other day and everyone was still adjusting for his absence.

Arthur raised his eyebrows and the paper higher. So long as the twins thought they were sneaky enough to get away with mischief, they wouldn’t try to improve their methods. Better the chaos you know, as Molly liked to say.

“Goodness me,” Arthur exclaimed.

“What is it, dear?”

“That new author you were talking about, Gilderoy Lockhart, he’s been convicted of fraud.”

“Really? What happened?” Molly leaned in to look for herself and caught Ginny trying to make a run for it without even turning her head.

“He’s not an adventurer,” Arthur frowned. “Turns out he was a journalist sent to interview the bloke who actually saved the town. Honest work wasn’t glamorous enough, by the sounds of it. Lockhart took the credit for the heroics and charmed a dozen memories to get away with it.”

“Oh, those poor people. What a despicable act, and who’d have thought? He’s such a kindly-looking man.”

“Bad business,” Arthur agreed. “I will never understand the things people will do for fortune and fame.”

“I do hope they put his victims to right.” Molly shook her head, distracted. Ginny gurgled. “Is everyone finished? Percy, clear the table, please.”

Arthur stood as well and folded the paper. “Charlie and I will get the washing up, love.”

“Thank you, boys. Ron, no, spit that out.”

Charlie worked in silence. They carried a pile of dishes each. Arthur charmed the soap and water while the young boy went back for the rest. Arthur flicked his wand at the last pile and they floated up to join the perilously high stack.

“Next year it’ll be your turn to take the train. It’ll come along before you know it,” he put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder, but the boy kept his eyes on his feet. “Help your mother. Keep an eye on your brothers. We’ll tune up your boom tonight when I get back, alright?”

That got a reaction. Charlie smiled.

The clock chimed.

“Merlin, is that the time already?” Arthur waded back into the noise, kissed his wife and summoned his hat and bag. “Good morning, dear, children. I’ll see you soon.”

…

**January 1983**

“Order. Order!” the judge called. The murmuring slowly died down. The journalists were there in droves, Rita Skeeter at the forefront as if she’d hadn’t caused enough trouble blowing everything out of proportion, stirring the public into a frenzy and causing this whole debacle. 

How quickly opinions could change. It was public demand that pushed through the very measures they were now protesting! And rightly so – the proper procedures were ill-equipped to deal with the volume of cases during the war. Before the emergency measures, more Aurors were standing in front of holding cells than were defending the wider populous and good people were hurt because of it. It was unfortunate that the delayed trials were lost in the system, it reflected badly on the administration, but it was just an oversight; it should’ve been dealt with quickly and quietly. Now the entire judicial system was backlogged, and everyone was wasting time jumping through hoops.

Damn the politicians jockeying for power, for nit-picking, for bringing up terrible memories that ought to be laid to rest. Didn’t they have anything better to do? Running the country, perhaps? But no, not during election season.

And to top it off, with a high-security case, several Dementors were necessary to escort the accused in.

Damn them all.

“Committal hearing of the sixth of January 1983, into the alleged offences committed by Sirius Orion Black, resident of Azkaban,” the judged said, managing to keep the frustration out of his voice. Heaven forbid someone complains about his professionalism and makes them start over. “The charges against the accused are as follows: murder of Peter Pettigrew; being instrumental in the murders of James Potter, Lily Potter and twelve muggles on the thirty-first of October 1981; and engaging in terrorist activity pertaining to the actions of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named prior to the date.”

Black was a wretched man, shrinking back from the Dementors as if he could hide in his chains and rags, yet he still managed to glare at the decent witches and wizards above him. It was starkly different from the laughing confession the madman had uttered at the scene fourteen months ago. That was the look of a defiant man, a man who would lie and weasel and argue, but the judge was not concerned. Black had no case. Let him splutter, let him rave and talk himself in circles, let him flounder without witnesses or defendants, let him corner himself and finally confess. It wouldn’t take long. This was a mere formality. The judge would sentence him, and this time it would _stick_.

“How do you plead?”

…

Bartemius Crouch scowled. Black didn’t break eye contact, glaring at him from the dark of those sunken sockets. Of course. Bartemius stood against evil and idleness; he’d sent dozens of Death Eaters on an express to Azkaban while other men floundered. Bartemius was enemy number one, and he’d take that as a badge of pride.

Black was despicable, not even honourable enough to own up to his crimes. His tale merely shifted blame onto Pettigrew and added some convoluted twists to make it fit. An animagus spy, really? Bartemius wouldn’t be surprised to learn Black got that idea from a novel.

What a load of rubbish. Even if Bartemius entertained the ridiculous notion it didn’t make sense. If Pettigrew was alive, where’s he been for over a year? His name was put on an Order of Merlin, not an arrest warrant. Why would he need to hide?

“I call any witnesses with information pertaining to the charges to come forward,” the judge said, giving a token pause. Bartemius looked up sharply when several people did.

“Auror Bones,” the judge called in surprise. “State the evidence.”

“The Department of Magical Law Enforcement received a report on the fourteenth of November 1982, in Ottery St. Catchpole, for a sighting of an unregistered animagus the witness believed to be Peter Pettigrew. Investigators were dispatched but no animagus was found.”

November. A full month before Skeeter pounced on the missing case files and conspiracy theories started flowing in from the public. Bartemius felt a twinge of concern. He assured himself he was merely worried about how Black managed to arrange the circumstantial evidence.

“Did the witness describe the animal form?”

“Yes. A brown rat, missing a toe on his right hand.”

Bartemius remembered the original gory scene. There’d been nothing left of Pettigrew but a finger.

“Are there any registered animagi matching the description?” the judge asked, a tense note entering his voice.

“No,” Bones answered. “Nor is Peter Pettigrew registered as a different animagus.”

So it wasn’t impossible. That didn’t mean anything.

“Who is the witness?”

“The report was submitted by an anonymous member of the public.”

The judge raised an eyebrow. “Convenient. Can anyone confirm the form?”

“I can,” a second witness stepped forward. His clothes were clean, but they’d begun to wear at the edges in a way that only many, many cleaning charms can produce.

“And you are?”

“Remus Lupin. I was friends with Peter in school. He transformed in front of me several times.”

“Do you have proof?”

“I can provide evidence that Peter was a member of an unofficial club of student animagi in Hogwarts, for instance,” Lupin’s eyes darted to Black. He hesitated. “James Potter was a member and animagus. I have written accounts. And many people can attest that Peter went by the nickname Wormtail, though most did not know it was a reference to his rat form.”

“Even so, that does not necessarily mean Peter Pettigrew is alive,” the judge spluttered, sweat visible on his brow. “Inconclusive. I call for the application of Veritaserum to Sirius Black.”

Bartemius blinked. That was not standard procedure. Truth serums fell out of use in the courts several decades ago. The crowd’s murmurs echoed his surprise.

The change of plans didn’t faze Auror Bones. She was quickly becoming the last person in the room with any level of composure. “The prisoner has been under constant surveillance. We can confirm that he has not ingested the antidote in the last 24 hours.”

“Sirius Black, did you kill Peter Pettigrew?”

The room leant forward. Denial would prove nothing. Veritaserum is not infallible, but no man with the ability to resist it would admit to the crimes; a confession would seal his fate. And after long term exposure to Dementors, his mental defences should be no match for the potion. He _must_ be guilty. It was more than likely.

“No.”

For the first time since the trial began, the room fell deadly silent. Bartemius could hear the judge take a bracing breath.

“Were you in any way affiliated with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Name or the organisation known as the Death Eaters?”

“I fought against them in the war.”

“Have you ever killed a wizard or muggle?” the judge sounded downright hopeful.

“No.”

Now the judge looked almost as pale as Sirius. Desperately, he said, “You confessed at the scene of the crime!”

“It was my fault,” Sirius agreed tonelessly. He started shaking. “I told James to use Peter as the secret keeper. I would be the decoy. But Peter sold them out to Voldemort. It was my idea. It was my fault.”

Anarchy.

Bartemius Crouch saw his career flash before his eyes.

…

**February 1983**

“Moody, you’re not going to believe this.”

“What?” Alastor growled, shifting his inkwell across his desk just in time to avoid the papers Frank slapped down.

Arrest warrants for Ministry employees. Merlin’s mouldy crotch. Alastor hadn’t seen those since Karkaroff grassed-up Augustus Rookwood. Malfoy should’ve been next and Alastor still didn’t have that name on his desk – the tides hadn’t turned _that_ far – but if Alastor never again had to resist the urge to curse Yaxley, Macnair or Avery, he’d rest easier.

Alastor got to work scanning the Ministry from top to bottom, looking straight through walls and the disorienting pocket spaces.

It was his lucky day.

“Yaxley is in the Misuse of Magic Office, he’s all yours. I’ll send Robards and Proudfoot to hunt down Macnair. I can handle Avery. We’ll strike at the same time. Let’s not give them a chance to run or fight. The trainees can stakeout the fireplaces.”

“Aye, aye,” said the smartarse, ducking out of the office at a run.

Alastor’s limp didn’t make him much slower. He set off down the corridors and scared the bejesus out of Robards, but that was his own fault for relaxing in the break room. After Robards and Proudfoot headed off towards the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Alastor had one more desk call to make.

“Scrimgeour!”

“Yes, Moody?”

“We’re leading a strike on Yaxley, Macnair and Avery in ten.”

Scrimgeour stood quickly. “Which team am I on?”

“None,” Alastor said and his face split into a nasty lopsided grin. “Malfoy is hanging around the ICW block. Wait until he’s heard the news, then show yourself. If he spooks, I reckon that’s suspicious activity and grounds to bring him in for questioning, don’t you?”

“You sly old…” Scrimgeour didn’t finish, perhaps remembering who he was mouthing off to.

Scrimgeour wasn’t the best fighter but he was a brilliant strategist. Alastor didn’t have to tell him why the mission was important.

Malfoy was the linchpin. With all those gold galleons in the purse hanging from his hip, Malfoy had the world convinced the sun shines out of his arse. He came out of the war richer than he went in, he’d all but single-handedly propelled Minister Bagnold into the top job. Gullible, grateful, and far, far too optimistic Bagnold. Even a Dark Mark couldn’t stand up against willful blindness. Bagnold labelled the whole thing a witch-hunt and all other attempts to dig out the rot failed. The Ministry grabbed any excuse with both hands and let anyone else jump on board the Imperius express rather than admit that it smelt of bullshit. It only got worse after it turned out Sirius Black might be innocent; no one wanted to be the next Crouch.

But something changed. Malfoy’s influence was faltering – these warrants were proof of that. Even if Malfoy kept his cool today, if the Aurors kept up the pressure they might force him to pull his influence in tighter in self-defence and expose Crabbe, Goyle and more.

Promises, promises.


	3. Dish the dirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Skeeter is a stickybeak, Dumbledore is a little stressed and Tonks is a klutz.

**February 1984**

Rita Skeeter put the finishing touches on the book that would make her career. Not only that; it would embed her in the legend of _His_ defeat. She’d be a household name alongside young Harry Potter. A warrior for justice –

Oh, she liked the sound of that. She’d add it to the section describing her part in forcing the trail, which was, admittedly, a large part of the book. A little exaggerated, but it only made the story more compelling.

There was only one more chapter to flesh out; the source of information. The person who’d told Rita that a prominent pureblood was imprisoned illegally. The person who submitted the report to the DMLE. The person who wrote to Remus Lupin, casually enquiring if his old friend happened to be able to turn into a rat, by any chance, because they’ve seen an Animagus that looks just like him. The person who told the Weasleys, Lovegoods and Digorys to catch any rat they came across.

The information appeared to come from multiple sources, scattered between letters. But it didn’t match the pattern of different sightings from multiple people – too consistent, too complete, too convenient – it wasn’t fragmented, it was _targeted_. They’d known what information to give each party to grab their attention, and more strikingly, what information to hold back to keep them hooked. Everything pointed towards it coming from just one person – everything but _evidence_. Whoever they were, they knew how to cover their tracks. They’d not only anticipated the storm they’d stir up; they’d counted on it.

Rita had shaped the highest tiers of British society with a mere stroke of her quill. Yet, clearly, she’d been a pawn in someone else’s game. But if she reaped the benefits, who was she to complain? It was flattering, really, that the informant recognised her attention to detail and ability to get her voice heard.

But why the whole charade? The situation was so strange and from experience, Rita knew those cases contained the juiciest details beneath the surface. If only she could find the informant.

The owls were sent from numerous different countries. The letters themselves were a dead end. As far as Rita could tell, the writer never touched the parchment, there wasn’t a trace of the author, much less anything that could be added to a tracking potion. But it appeared they’d overlooked a loophole in their owl wards. By the end of the long uncomfortable flight clinging to the owl’s feathers, Rita was smug with success, only to have her hopes shattered.

A child untied the letter from the outstretched leg, blinking in confusion after she opened it. “X'inhu dan? Ingliż?”

Perhaps this was the informant’s child? Rita flew further into the room. A typical girl’s bedroom, the walls a garish shade of purple and peppered with battered belongings. Rita nearly fell out of the air at the confronting scene hanging above the small bed – a pinned insect collection.

Eyes drawn to the shiny beetle, the child abandoned the letter and raced after her, a big grin on her face. “Ħanfusa ġdida!”

And then she grabbed a net.

Rita went back through the windows as fast as her wings could carry her.

No. Of course, the informant had diverted their owl post. And to _that_ grabby little monster. It couldn’t be an accident. Was this a threat, a warning? Did they know her animagus form? How did they find out? And how did they know so much about a Pettigrew? On second thought, maybe Rita didn’t want to find this person. Surely there’s only one way to learn so much about the inner workings of the Death Eaters.

Come to think of it, if the informant wanted Pettigrew captured and knew where he was, why didn’t they do it themselves? Turning in a spy was a great achievement. Aurors and hit wizards collected substantial bounties and criminals could get any sentence short of murder reduced to community service. If that wasn’t enough to keep them from Azkaban…

She could make this work. She would write it as a romantic mystery. A very flattering mystery. No need to provoke an inner circle Death Eater.

…

**March 1984**

A letter sat open in wrinkled hands. A comforting phoenix song echoed in the rooming, but past the ringing in the man’s ears, it sounded far away. 

_Professor Dumbledore,_

_The Dark Lord is not dead. He tethered himself to the world by splitting his soul into at least one Horcrux. These are not mere suspicions. Before his banishment, I found a vessel in a cave that held some significance to Tom M Riddle, a locket passed down from Salazar Slytherin. _

_I suspect the Locket is not the only Horcrux. In my research, I uncovered many potential objects. I have narrowed them down to a list of five, though I suspect he was aiming for a seven-part soul. _

_The first is Slytherin’s Locket, a large gold pendant with an S formed from green stones. It is currently in 12 Grimmauld Place under the care of my house elf. You understand my hesitation sending such a thing by post, but you are welcome to collect it. Tell Kreacher that you are planning to destroy it and he will hand it over._

_The second is the Gaunt family ring. It is a dark stone marked with the emblem of the Deathly Hallows. There is a strong compulsion to touch it and anyone who does will receive a fatal curse. Do not underestimate it. Take precautions and backup. I thought myself unswayable and almost lost my life. It is the Gaunt house near Little Haggleton. _

_The third is Hufflepuff’s Cup. It was given to Bellatrix Lestrange. It may be in the Lestrange Manor or, more likely, their Gringotts vault. _

_The fourth is a leather diary marked T M Riddle, in the care of Lucius Malfoy. Similarly, it may be in their vault or manor. If I know Lucius Malfoy, it will be kept close to him. _

_The fifth is Ravenclaw’s Diadem. I believe it was created in Albania, although I doubt he would keep it outside of Britain. The most likely hiding spot is Hogwarts and in particular the Come And Go Room. Your house-elves may know the location if you do not. _

_The sixth is unconfirmed but the Dark Lord has an almost superstitious obsession with numbers of power; it is likely he was aiming for a seven-part soul. If my suspicions are correct, you will have to devise a way to remove a Horcrux from a living being. _

_Whatever remains of the Dark Lord is the seventh piece. His banishment at the hands of young Harry Potter may have sent him to the sight of his last Horcrux, in Albania. I have heard dark rumours from those forests. Investigate with care. _

_The Horcruxes are under extensive protections. I tried and failed to collect all but the Locket, and even that I cannot destroy, for I do not have access to anything as potent as basilisk venom and I will not risk fiendfyre. I need help, and so I turn it over to your capable hands. _

_You may contact me if you need more information. A return letter addressed to a The Informant carried by a smart enough owl will reach me. Leaving this gaping weakness terrifies me, but I have learnt some things are more important than my own desires. I am trusting you not to exploit it._

_I’ve made some bad decisions in my life. I was gullible and too concerned about what others would think of me. This is not an excuse, but an explanation. I’m trying to atone for my mistakes. I cannot do that if I’m in prison or the Dark Lord’s loyal servants locate me. _

_Please don’t try to find me. Please don’t tell anyone what I know or how to contact me. Please destroy this letter with extreme prejudice. _

_Best of luck to us both, _

_R.A.B_

The knowledge sat unforgettable, unignorable in Albus’s mind and everything looked bleak and grey. It upended his plans and they settled into their new shape, under one priority: Horcruxes. Good grief. Albus learned the term when researching the Deathly Hallows, back when he and Gellert were young men. It was magic so dark and costly that even Gellert wouldn’t touch it.

That Tom Riddle would make one, let alone _six_… It didn’t feel like the world ought to be ticking on just as it had before, but the Whomping Willow swatted birds, the portraits bickered among themselves and his pocket watch drew his attention with a delicate cough. The world did not stop just because Albus’s heart had. Albus still needed to hire a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, as he must every year. It was startlingly mundane.

Albus placed the letter on the phoenix perch and Fawkes obliged him by burning the parchment to a state no magic could reverse.

Albus took a longer route to Hogsmeade, via the passages with slippery slides to help him think. How dare Tom pollute his school with such black and dangerous magic. Albus had half a mind to cancel the interview or just give the woman the job on the spot, but he couldn’t afford to act rashly – his students would soon need the best Defence education he could give them.

Tom hadn’t set foot in Hogwarts for over twenty years. The Horcrux could’ve been there for decades. Realistically, a few more hours wouldn’t make much difference. How naïve of Albus to assume that the worst thing he’d left behind was the jinx on the Defence position. Incidentally, that was also why Albus now interviewed applicants _outside_ the castle.

Even fewer people applied for the job than last year. The next witch had the most promising resume of the batch but was otherwise an unknown. Albus usually had some idea of who he was dealing with since most British witches and wizards had passed through the school during his tenure, but she grew up abroad and home-schooled. Her lack of experience with school systems didn’t make her an ideal candidate, but perhaps her expertise in magizoology would make up for it.

When Albus ducked inside out of the cold, a young woman broke off from chatting with Rosmerta. “Professor Dumbledore, good afternoon. I’m Belinda Pace.”

“Belinda, how nice to meet you, I hope I didn’t keep you waiting”

Rosmerta waved them up to a private room. Albus managed idle pleasantries for a few minutes, but he found he did not have the patience today to keep it up for long. Nor did he have time to waste conducting and interview if she, like many others, considered the short-term and high-risk combination a deal-breaker. “Now, I need to be upfront; you understand this is only a twelve-month contract?”

She was not deterred. “Yes, I’m aware you have a jinx issue? I might be able to help with that.”

“Really?” Albus leaned forward and steepled his fingers. There was very little he hadn’t already tried. “In what way?”

“I trained a Kneazle to track dark magic. She can find anything from talismans to runic arrays. If the jinx is nearby, she’ll find it.”

“Several Curse-breakers have already tried,” Albus warned. Perhaps the Curse-breakers missed it, after all, there were many places to hide a spell and Tom Riddle knew them better than anyone alive, but Albus wouldn’t be surprised if Tom linked the curse to himself and there was simply nothing to find.

“I think it’s worth a shot.”

Hmm. It was unconventional, but conventional wisdom had already failed, and when Albus thought about it, it made a certain amount of sense. Kneazles certainly had a natural advantage over human senses, particularly for detecting ill-will.

Albus probed deeper into her work history and Belinda happily obliged. She was an expert with dark creatures and the dangerous situations she’d found herself in proved she was competent with defensive magic. She had zero teaching experience, but Albus was cautiously optimistic. At the very least, training animals might give her a better chance at controlling a classroom than the last Professor.

“Well, Miss Pace, I’d like to offer you the job.”

“Thank you, sir,” she beamed.

“We can meet later this week to sign papers and discuss admin. You will also need to obtain a licence to keep a Kneazle in a public place from the Ministry – the Improper Use of Magic Office, not the Magical Creatures division, where you might expect. The paperwork falls to a woman called Dolores Umbridge.”

“Ah. We’ve met,” Belinda said, a strained note in her voice. “Well then, I have a few letters to write.”

…

**September 1984**

Platform 9¾ was brilliant. Tonks skipped between her mum and dad. She looked a bit like an owl with her eyes opened wide and the way she was turning to look at everything except where she was going. Fortunately, her parents steered her around trunks and nonpermeable walls and other hazards.

After a brief but heartfelt farewell, Tonks could no longer contain herself. She ran to the nearest door, tripped over the step and almost fell into the train. Her legs were a bit longer than usual after all that peeping.

“Be careful, Dora!” her mum called.

Looking back, Tonks could see her parents struggling not to laugh.

She didn’t hold back, grinning unrepentantly. “As always, mum!”

The Express was steadily filling up. Tonks hulled her trunk through the corridor, unknowingly bouncing it off the walls until she found a compartment with three girls that looked around her age.

She stepped in. “Can I sit here?” she remembered to ask.

“Sure,” said a girl with blond ringlets. “I’m Sandra, this is my friend Hestia, and this is Agnus. We’re first years.”

“Me too! I’m Dora Tonks, just call me Tonks.” She flopped down on the nearest seat and rested her feet on top of her trunk.

“Tonks? As in, Andromeda Tonks nee Black?” Hestia sat up, a slightly crazed look in her dark eyes.

“She’s my mum.”

“Then you’re Sirius Black’s first cousin once removed!”

“Sorry. She’s a fan.” Sandra said, despite the risk of point elbows. Agnus, a short girl, watched with a strange smile.

“Uh, yeah?” Tonks answered Hestia. “We’re not allowed to see him much, though. He’s got to stay home. The courts suspended his sentence until Pettigrew is found.”

Hestia nodded rapidly. “I know, I’ve been following the whole thing. Is he alright?”

Sandra looked between Tonks and her friend, but that conversation had no end in sight. She moved to sit next to Agnus. “So, which house do you want to be in?”

…

**September 1984**

The first years waited in front of the head table of teachers. Tonks recognised Professor Dumbledore from her Chocolate Frog Cards and Professor Snape because his sour appearance matched his reputation. He perched like a gargoyle, just glaring at the students, but that didn’t seem to deter the young witch next to him from smiling and chatting away. She seemed nice.

“Bonnici, Agnus.” Tonks felt a bit sorry for her, having to go first. She seemed a bit shy. She didn’t speak much on the train, and she was shaking a little now. Her secret little smile was nowhere to be seen.

“Ravenclaw!” the hat announced the hall.

Tonks watched most of the sorting from the back of the crowd. She fiddled more and more as the pool of first years dwindled.

“Milligan, Sandra,” went to Hufflepuff.

“Jones, Hestia,” went to Gryffindor.

“Tonks, Nymphadora,” Professor McGonagall called, and Tonks jumped.

Finally. She scampered up to the stool and pulled the brim down over her eyes.

“Hufflepuff!”

Tonks got all the way to Sandra without falling over once. She snagged her foot lifting it over the bench, but she was mostly sitting already so that didn’t count.


	4. The teachers don't get paid enough for this

**September 1984**

Minerva started her first year Ravenclaw-Gryffindor class, as always, by demonstrating some impressive Transfiguration. She turned the desk into a carriage, then a horse, then back to a desk. Now that she had their attention, she delivered the safety warnings. If they remembered nothing else, they’d better remember Transfiguration was not a toy, or Merlin help them they’d be out of her class and into the Hospital wing if she had to send them there herself.

“Explosions are some of the least dangerous and least _permanent_ things you could inflict on yourself,” she finished in her most ominous voice.

The notices dealt with, Minerva moved on with the lecture. It was one of her favourite lessons. She paced the isles, taking mental notes about who was keeping up and which students looked confused. They didn’t need to understand right away, it should become clearer with more lessons, but if they didn’t show improved understanding, she’d recommend tutors to help them. Best to do it before they became disheartened. Every mind understood things differently and it could take a few tries to find the explanation that clicked.

There were some promising students. Charles Weasley was sharp. If he was anything like his brother William, she had high hopes for him in her classroom and the Quidditch pitch. She kept a close eye on him when the students moved onto the practical part of the lesson, in case he also shared his brother’s overenthusiastic approach to casting.

Weasley was a little flamboyant, but that would calm with practice, and his form was good. He and a few of the Ravenclaw girls managed to transform their matchsticks into needles before the end of the class. A further four students had hybrids. It was a promising cohort.

Strangely, while most of the students were still eagerly trying out their new wands, the frantic scratching of a quill started up again.

Minerva watched Agnus Bonnici examine her needle. She bent it, rubbed it on her shirt, scratched the surface, and compared hers against the one transfigured by Mary Wilson. She weighed the two, held them up in the light, then returned to the textbook and her notebook. The poor girl looked so confused. Minerva could guess what she was thinking and had to take a turn around the room to get her amusement under control.

“Is there a problem, Miss Bonnici?” Minerva asked.

“What is it?” Bonnici asked, frowning at the needle. “I mean, is it still a match, despite how it looks?”

“It is. Objects have memory. The transformation will revert back to the original object on its own accord,” Minerva said.

Bonnici stared at her needle as if determined to catch it in act. “Why? Does the magic get used up?”

“Not quite. You can think of the original object as more stable than the product. Making it assume a new shape puts it under pressure and it wants to relax back into the natural state.” It was the best explanation she could give someone with a complete lack of foundations in the subject.

At the end of the lesson, Minerva was not surprised to see Bonnici approach her desk.

“I’ve got to be in Charms in a few minutes. Can you recommend a book or two in this kind of area?” Bonnici asked, handing over a lined notebook. Under notes on the lecture was a rambling passage that went on for twice as long. 

_ Match to Needle transfiguration  _

_Is it silver? Textbook does not specify. No Latin or Greek roots for materials in the incantation. Doesn’t leave black residue on cloth – not pure silver? Dull, dense, cold, harder than expected (might be silver alloy), somewhat ductile. Need to rule out lead before messing with it – measure density. _

  * _Doesn’t oxidise like magnesium. Not mercury or gallium, melting temperature higher than body temperature. Could be nickel, iron, chromium, zinc, tin, titanium, platinum, lead, steel, other alloys._
  * _Note: get magnet, magnifying glass, furnace and thermometer. (HCl acid dissolves silver? Don’t remember, lookup)_
  * _ Is there a spell to determine material composition of objects? Look this up first._

_But only the Philosopher’s stone can turn material into gold. Why would gold be an exception to a rule? Gold isn’t too different to other metals. (It’s more conductive and denser than most. Relevant?). If alchemy is right, and wizarding culture hasn’t collapsed despite using silver as currency, then the inability to transform stuff to metal is the norm, then the needle is not real metal. _

_If it’s not real metal – not even temporarily – then what is it? Very good illusion? Simultaneous conjuring and banishing? McGonagall says “objects have memory” = more and less stable states (Note: sounds familiar, brush up on thermodynamics). _

_Maybe it’s just my interpretation of silver? Spells is limited by caster’s knowledge of what they’re trying to create? But metals are so simple – elemental silver is just one atom repeated a gazillion times, and organised in a FCC crystal structure and grains. Doubt it’s a knowledge issue. McGonagall turned a desk into a horse; that’s so much more complicated and there’s so much no one knows about the structure of animals at the molecular level. _

_Mary’s needle is similar to mine. Mary’s is shinier and pointier, mine is heavier. Are the differences due to our perception of metal or incomplete transfigurations? (Note: if my transfiguration is incomplete then all tests are invalid.) If a Stone Age witch cast the spell, would she get a bone needle? Does magic have an independent standard for what constitutes the needle? Does the spell define a needle as a shape, a point, a hole, an object that can take thread and sew – is a needle defined by its function, or is it deeper than that? _

_Is a metal needle a good conductor, does it have a high melting temperature or if held over a flame would it combust like wood? Those properties come from atoms. If the products of transfiguration and alchemy were indistinguishable, why would they be separate fields? Transfiguration is not permanent, Alchemy is, so that’s one difference but doubt it’s the only one. _

  * _Look up: is transfigured metal distinguishable from natural metal? Goblins would know. _
  * _Cut or snap needle: is it metal all the way through?_
  * _Does needle act like match? Will it float on water? Ignite? Etc. _

Minerva blinked.

A book or two. Right. Or three or four or twenty. Somehow, Minerva didn’t think Bonnici would mind. It was a naïve line of questioning, but the logic and thought behind it was advanced for the girl’s age.

“These topics are a bit out of the scope of the course,” Minerva warned. They wouldn’t be touching the theory until third year.

“I know. That’s why I didn’t interrupt the lesson to ask everything.”

Minerva considered that a blessing. ‘What is Transfiguration?’ may sound like a basic and obvious question to an eleven-year-old, but then so does ‘why is the sky blue?’.

“The most relevant book is _Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration_, but it assumes OWL level understanding, at least. You could start with the third-year textbook, _Intermediate Transfiguration_, as well as _Transfiguration Principles_ by Casandra Schwarzschild, _Alchemical Fundamentals_ chapter 2 by Leon White, or _Transformation Through the Ages_ by Laurence Clermont.”

“Thanks,” Bonnici jotted it down.

“Trying to fool goblins with transfigurations is futile and dangerous. Trying to taste or eat transfigurations is even more so. Trying to alter a spell will be the last thing you do in my class. I’m sure you remember the rules,” Minerva said with a stern look. “And if you held the needle over a flame, it would combust like a match.”

Now there was no need for anyone to get burnt, arrested, shanked or hospitalised.

“Right. Okay.”

The girl looked up, managing eye contact for a moment before staring vacantly over Minerva’s shoulder, lost in thought. Bonnici believed her, but she was going to try it anyway. She had that _look_; the one Minerva had seen in a few curious children over the years. She blamed those students in particular for turning her hair grey.

Minerva pinched her lips into a narrow line. Sometimes you must concede the little battles. “Take care which end of the needle you hold. You don’t want the striking end to ignite between your fingers.”

…

**November 1984**

The teachers’ lounge was large and airy, like much of the castle, but it was filled with witches and wizards that had been teaching since Severus was a student and that detracted significantly from the comfort level. Severus still occasionally felt like he’d wandered into the wrong room on his way to class. He’d much rather be in his private lab, but these staff meetings were an unfortunate necessity of the job. They advertised it as an important information sharing session.

Gossip. It was gossip.

Severus took a bracing sip of coffee.

“Tracy Bennet is being bullied, Severus,” Pomona said. “I’ve punished the students I caught, but I don’t expect that to be the end of it. You should monitor the situation.”

Severus inclined his head. He ought to see to it, he supposed. And he’d gladly take points of the other houses. But if he coddled his students as much as Pomona did hers, they’d grow up just as naïve and with a little character building as Hufflepuffs. Perhaps the girl needed to learn that the world doesn’t back down when you ask it to and start standing up for herself. No one had defended him, after all.

Poppy started going on about the unusual level of injuries and running short of Blood Replenishers. Ugh. Tedious and time-consuming, he had better things to do. He’d move up the fifth years' lesson and hope some of their work was good enough to use.

Belinda leaned his way. “Do you want my help, Severus? I’ll have a few hours free on the weekend.”

To brew together? His lip curled. The woman continued to cling to the impression that they were friends, or worse. “Shouldn’t you be looking for the jinx on the Defence position? The deadline grows ever closer.”

Severus would know – he was counting.

“The Ministry is still dragging their heals with the permits,” Belinda sighed.

“How unfortunate.” Severus hid a smirk in his cup. Bloody witch, trying to dig her claws in _his_ position.

In other news, one of the new students was causing more trouble than usual; Andromeda’s daughter had already broken the record for most detentions from a Hufflepuff in the first term. That girl was an absolute hazard in the Potions classroom, Merlin help him if he had to deal with her for more than five years.

Several of fifth years students were studying to the point of mental breakdown, which was uninteresting, except for the higher than usual chance that the sleep-deprived louts would land themselves in detention. If not, it well it wouldn’t take much glowering to provoke an incident. Despite Tonks’ efforts he still had a pile of cauldrons that needed scrubbing.

One of Filius’ first years appeared to have set her mind to reading every book in the library before she graduated, too. It could only be a Ravenclaw. If Minerva ever had a student that dedicated, Severus would eat a salamander.

“Ah, yes, Agnus Bonnici. Bright child, but a bit, well…”

Who? Severus wondered.

“She will burn herself out if she keeps it up,” Belinda added her unnecessary opinion. Severus could tell she was planning to meddle. He’d been on the receiving end of that look more than once. Overbearing witch. Severus endured by reminding himself she was only temporary. Death, sacking or resignation – he had his preference, of course, but he wasn’t fussy.

“I’ll talk to Bonnici about sleep and health,” Poppy sighed and added the girls name to her list of mental cases beneath the fifth years.

“Has she been leaving the library earlier of late, Irma?” Filius asked the librarian. “I’ve been setting extension questions for her. I hope that having a goal will reduce the endless tangents she seems to find.”

“I don’t think the time she leaves means much. She takes a dozen books when she goes,” Irma said.

“The classes aren’t challenging her,” Minerva said. “It’s only a matter of time before she gets bored, and then we’ll have a bigger problem on our hands.”

“Yes, heaven forbid you have to face the level of passive aggression I do. That child has something against astronomy,” Aurora sighed. “We did a unit on this significance of constellations on potion brewing, and half her essay was about coincidences and causality.”

Five points to Ravenclaw, Severus mentally cheered. Bloody astrologers moving their speculation into his field. He’d like to take Master Tarro and shove his superstition so far up his –

“Does she behave herself in your class, Severus?” Aurora asked.

If he didn’t remember the girl’s name, then presumably he’d never had to fill it out in triplicate on the equipment replacement application. “I’ve had no issue with her.”

“Neither have I. To her credit, she’s very careful,” Pomona said.

“She’s very _thorough_. It’s not the same thing,” Minerva muttered. “She almost started a fire in the Great Hall, if you recall. She wants to dissect a transfigured animal. She asked me if we have any ethics standards she should refer to.”

“At least she asked?” Pomona shook her head. “You’re too harsh on her, Minerva. She hasn’t done any harm, yet. She thinks ahead.”

“You both raise valid points,” Albus interrupted Minerva and Pomona before the argument could get interesting. “We should guide her restless energy. Let her explore but keep her from stumbling into trouble before she’s aware of the risks. The extension questions are a good idea.”

What a waste of time. Severus would give it even odds on next Dark Lord or NEWT dropout, but he couldn’t raise that point in this crowd because they believed in bright futures and all that rot, so Severus just refilled his cup. It wasn’t deep enough to deal with this shit.


	5. Detective Dumbledore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time traveler can't hide forever. They've been meddling something fierce and people are starting to sit up and take note.

**December 1984**

Sirius dropped the needle. There were a few beats of silence, then notes from an electric guitar split the air.

Remus grinned into the pages of a new book. “Great Christmas music, Sirius. Real festive.”

“Sarcasm! How dare you. When will you learn – there’s a Guns and Roses song suitable for any occasion. Bar fights. Weddings. Funerals – especially dear old mum’s,” Sirius grinned as drums joined the score. He grabbed Remus’ shoulder and propelled him out of the chair. “Dance with me!”

It was ridiculous. Sirius only knew formal ballroom routines, Remus didn’t know anything at all, and they were both trying to lead to a beat much faster than their feet could handle.

The floo turned green and the grand profile of Albus Dumbledore strode out. It didn’t help Sirius’ coordination to have a teacher catch them in the middle of doing something stupid, but it did bring back fond memories.

“Good afternoon, Professor. We did get your owl. We must’ve lost track of time,” Remus said calmly, coaxing Sirius into an ungraceful twirl.

“No, no. I’m early, there is no rush,” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Should I summon my dancing shoes?”

“You’re welcome to, of course,” Remus said because despite what people might think, he was the shameless one. “We can put on something from The Hobgoblins if that is more your style.”

Sirius executed a dip that left Remus hanging for a perilous second. “Don’t you dare.”

“If you want to convince me muggle music is better, then surely we need to listen to wizarding records for the sake of comparison?” Remus suggested innocently.

“Ha! You’ve been listening to the Hobgoblins for a decade, the next few months are mine. You’ll learn to love it,” Sirius declared. He’d already planned the campaign. He’d have to steal Remus’ wand to spell the record player indestructible and put sticking charms on the table, the floor and the foundations to stop it being thrown out the window, but he would win this.

“We’re going to Live Aid in July – got tickets from Sirius’ guardian angel,” Remus explained for the sake of the headmaster.

“Speaking of Christmas presents,” Sirius said to Dumbledore on the next turn (which came two measures too soon, but who was counting? Certainly not Remus). “Did you fill out my wish-list?”

Dumbledore hesitated. “Pettigrew hasn’t been caught, no. And the DMLE rejected our application; they won’t classify your relationship with Harry as familial or grant visitation rights.”

Sirius froze. Remus took a prudent step back just before Sirius exploded into motion. “He’s my godson! Now I know they’re just trying to piss me off. Safety concerns, my arse – do they really think that if I _was_ a Death Eater, I’d let a little thing like permission stop me from getting to the boy who killed Voldemort? _Do they_?”

“They are only trying to protect him,” Dumbledore said in a calming voice that made Sirius’s blood boil.

“_I’ll_ protect him! Like James and Lily trusted me to do if anything happened to them. I missed another year with my godson, Dumbledore, I won’t miss his birthday too.” Fuck parole. What could they do, send him back to Azkaban? They’d have to catch him first. He wouldn’t go quietly a second time. He was sick of waiting, sick of playing their twisted games, and sick of Dumbledore. “What do you want, then?”

“I need to ask about your brother, Sirius, and if you think he could be alive.”

The words punched the air out of his lungs. “Fuck,” Sirius coughed. “You really are determined to ruin Christmas.”

…

**January 1985**

Albus stooped to look at a shelf. Glass sculptures clamoured for his attention, except for one shy unicorn which ducked out of sight. The art was quite pleasing; they’d go well in his office, but he wasn’t here to shop.

A new influence had wormed its way into the Ministry in recent years. Albus, being a man with many fingers in different pies himself, noticed the competition. No one had ever seen or heard the culprit, they’d just receive an anonymous, untraceable letter. Those protections were, if anything, too extensive because the thoroughness itself became a distinct signature. Lockhart’s exposure; the Horcrux letter; the chaos around Sirius Black – all from the same Informant. Even Sirius and Remus didn’t know who their identity, and they’d been in contact for years now.

The tinkling of glass brought Albus’ mind back to the shop. The unicorn sculpture was bolder with his inattention. It shied but didn’t hide away when he focused on it again.

Of all the Informant’s activities, the Horcrux letter was the only one signed with initials, and it did not take Albus long to figure out that Regulus Black was the only person the story could apply to. There was enough truth in their words to make it credible. Regulus _did_ break into Riddle’s cave, _did_ retrieve a Horcrux, but almost certainly died in the attempt. Albus only lacked a body to confirm it, and if Regulus met his end at the hands of the Inferi, Albus likely always would. Without a body, there was enough room for doubt – maybe Regulus somehow survived and remained in hiding – but no longer. After following up on Sirius’ information, Albus was certain R.A.B was a smokescreen.

Albus cast silently with his wand hidden in his long sleeves. No spells he could think of revealed any concealment – no pocket dimension, no blood wards, no secret doors. There was nothing suspicious at all. Even the shopkeeper was entirely unconcerned with his loitering. Albus didn’t want his visit to stick out in her mind. He gestured to the unicorn, “Kemm jiswa?”

“Għoxrin deheb,” she answered. Albus accepted the price and the witch summoned and packaged the sculpture with burnt hands that suggested the work was her own.

Albus finished the purchase and ducked out of the low doorway into the narrow streets of Mdina. There was little else he could glean from inside. Tracking the Informant was a task fraught with frustration. It led him by the nose along a convoluted maze around the world. Now this place, too, was starting to look like the latest in a series of dead ends.

The building, with the artesian store on street level and apartments on top, was indistinguishable from the two either side. Except this place held a connection; it was the home of one of his students – his _only_ Maltese student.

Malta had never had a strong history with Hogwarts, even back when it was a British colony. It wasa far easier to apply to Beauxbatons, if the local schools didn’t suit. Why did her parents choose to put her through the nightmare of the Hogwarts foreign student selection process? Was she being used as a spy or messenger? Could the Informant be someone with influence over the child, perhaps a guardian or a family friend or enemy? Albus had no idea, but it was unlikely enough of a coincidence that every option was worth investigating.

If there was a chain of messengers, it would explain the patchy quality of the information. Even basic details were wrong, such as Riddle’s town – it was Little Hangleton, not Haggleton. That was an odd place for a spelling mistake.

Whoever the Informant was, clearly, they had something to hide, and that was a serious cause for concern, depending on who they were hiding _from_. If they feared Voldemort, well that seemed sensible, but they didn’t seem keen to meet Albus or the DMLE either. It couldn’t be because they were a traitorous Death Eater and their dishonesty called into question everything they wrote. Creeping in the shadows was generally not the way of the Light and righteous. And yet, their actions seemed determined to help other people. Albus didn’t know what to think.

…

**January 1985 **

Groggy students filtered into the Great Hall. Pomona had seen bubotubers with more energy but that was always the case on the first day after the students returned from their Christmas break. Although, if there was ever an exception to a rule, Miss Tonks was a likely candidate. Tonks and Sandra Milligan conducted an exciting conversation that, to Pomona, sounded louder than the one right next to her between Minerva and Albus.

“She gave me a ticket too! I think she did for all of us. We can go as a group!” Tonks said, knocking a roll off her plate in her enthusiasm. “I guess you don’t know much about muggle music. Don’t worry, it’s great. I haven’t heard of this band though, I guess they’re from Africa. Maybe they’re touring. Hold on – Bonnici, over here!”

The shout drew an irate scowl from Severus. The little Ravenclaw crossed around the front of the Slytherin table, heedless of the steely-eyed glared. “Hey, guys. How were your holidays?”

“Great,” said Milligan. “My family took me skiing.”

“Cool,” Bonnici replied, prompting a great deal of eye-rolling.

“Hey, thanks for the tickets. We’re so excited,” Tonks said, making room for Bonnici to sit down. “Tell us more about this concert. What kind of music do they play?”

Bonnici shook her head. “Live Aid isn’t a band – it’s a charity gig. They’re raising money for the famine in Ethiopia.”

“Oh,” Milligan said, excitement dimmed by confusion. “Is there still music?”

“Lots of it. Some of the biggest stars in the world will be there,” said Bonnici.

Tonks lit up. “Oh, so it’s like the Quidditch Flight for Change match?”

“Bigger,” Bonnici grinned.

The girls’ conversation was drowned out in the growing crowd. Minerva’s voice was the only one close enough to surface about the white noise. “ – and we should see about organising a deal with Cleansweep to get a few new brooms for the Quidditch teams; the school brooms all but useless on the pitch. Wealth shouldn’t be a limiting factor for aspiring players, Albus,” Minerva said. “Don’t you think? Albus?”

Pomona’s head turned at the sudden concern in Minerva’s voice. The headmaster was leaning forward, almost out of his seat, eyes fixated on the first years.

Pomona cleared her throat. “Albus?”

He didn’t hear them.

Albus’s focus was so intense it was even unnerving Severus – _Severus_, who glared at students to pass the time.

“Albus!” Minerva said sharply.

He sat back and buttered a piece of toast as if nothing happened. Minerva demanded answers with a dangerous eyebrow.

“Have you heard of Live Aid, Belinda?” Albus smiled disarmingly.

The defence professor, suddenly put on the spot, hurried to swallow her pumpkin juice. “No?”

Albus hummed. “Well it is a muggle event, I wouldn’t expect many to know about it, but I hear it’s going to be one not to miss. A few friends of mine will be lucky enough to attend, but I regret that my schedule will not allow it.”

Pomona, Minerva and Severus exchanged baffled looks. Pomona didn’t know what was going on, but she resolved to keep an eye on it.

…

**February 1985**

Albus sat at his desk, turning his rings. It was a restless, unproductive habit. He had paperwork to be getting on with, but his mind was too consumed to give the pages much attention. 

The Informant. It was not Regulus Black, not Belinda Pace, it wasn’t even Agnus Bonnici’s parents – it was _her_.

The idea was absurd and everything Albus discovered only made that more apparent. She was only nine years old when Sirius faced trial, she’d never been to Britain, she had no connection to Pettigrew or Riddle that could explain why she knew their deepest secrets. But at the same time, many idiosyncrasies suddenly made sense – only communicating through letters, lying and impersonating adults, refusing to get her hands dirty with Pettigrew. It wasn’t just for secrecy; it was to overcome the limitations of her young body and lack of magical skill and recruit help from otherwise sceptical adults.

Albus wondered if she made a deliberate choice to avoid dispelling the disbelief to protect herself. It must be. Instead of trying to change people’s minds, she wrapped herself in their assumptions like an Invisibility Cloak, and hidden in plain sight, the persona of Angus Bonnici was completely free. It was the perfect way to protect an open door – to bury it in lookalikes, to hide within the fault lines of human preconceptions. She disguised her home as just another trick, no more or less absurd than the countless distractions she’d thrown his way. It was undeniably effective. Albus still struggled with doubt; even now a part of his brain insisted she must be a decoy. A child couldn’t pull off what she’d done, but she’d done it, therefore she mustn’t be a child.

But neither was she an imposter. To all accounts, Agnus Bonnici had always behaved this way. There’d been no sudden personality shifts to implicate possession.

Discovering the identity of the Informant left him with more questions than he started with. There was one way to learn the truth.

Fawkes called out a warning.

“Welcome, Miss Bonnici,” Albus said. He opened the door with a flick of his fingers before she could knock. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, Headmaster,” she parroted and perched on the edge of a chair, eyes darting to the door.

Most students were at least a little nervous the first time they were summoned to a meeting; a few gentle enquiries could get that out of the way. But when a student was _this_ panicked, Albus didn’t start with small talk. Prolonging the encounter would only allow more time for anxiety to build into panic. Why was she so afraid of him? Was she guilty of something he couldn’t imagine yet?

“You are not in trouble.” Fawkes reinforced the message with a few soothing notes. “A few years ago, you sent me a letter describing tethers to immortality. Can you tell me more about it?”

Many students before her had sat in that chair and were asked a question that demanded an immediate commitment: truth or fiction. Albus saw the exact moment she decided not to lie. It took a few more for her to reach the same conclusion, but that was fine – Albus had a reserve of patience and lemon drops.

She glanced at the portraits. “Can we continue this discussion with a little more privacy?”

Albus raised wards and silencing charms. Another swish of his wand conjured blinds over the portraits. “Will that suffice?”

She fidgeted, delaying a few more seconds. “I guess so. What do you want to know?”

Ah, the perfect opening. Much obliged. Albus needed this conversation to proceed in the correct order.

“Who have you told about the Horcruxes?” Albus asked in a casual manner, but very deliberately; not _have you_? but _who_?

“Just you.”

“Did you write it down anywhere? Or store it in a Pensieve?”

“Only in the letter I sent you.” She narrowed her eyes.

“Did the letter leave your sight before you sent it?”

“I wrote it in Hogsmeade and carried it to a house elf. She said she took it straight to you.”

Nelly would have done precisely that, and Albus had destroyed the letter as soon as he read it.

“How did you find out about the Horcruxes? Did someone tell you, was it written down?”

Her cheeks puffed out with the force of her exhalation. “Sort of? It’s a long story and it’s not relevant if this is going where I think it’s going. There’s no book in this world with my information stored in it. Is that enough for now?”

That was a tempting avenue of questioning to pursue, but her suspicion was correct; time was short.

“Indeed,” Albus hummed. So, the knowledge was only in Miss Bonnici’s mind. That could be breached in several ways. Her occlumency shields were good enough to repel small attacks and anything strong enough to break through would leave obvious scars. She showed no signs of invasion or memory modification.

“Did you gain the information before you learnt occlumency?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I’ve been working on the meditation for years but I only learnt the more specialised shielding techniques about eighteen months ago.”

A Legilimens could’ve flicked through her mind leaving no one the wiser. It was unlikely to be an average Legilimens, for her discomfort with direct eye contact made perusal difficult. The rarity of strong practitioners, at least, reduced the pool of candidates to question. 

They’d sat in silence for too long while Albus was gathering his thoughts. It gave her time to grow suspicious. “What’s going on?”

“I merely want more information.”

“Pardon me, sir, but if you needed more information, why didn’t you write back years ago? Owls could find me. I checked.”

“I had reasons to be concerned about security. I did not want opposition undermining my efforts,” Albus said because avoiding her concerns would be far worse. He smiled, attempting to put her more at ease. “This is not the kind of information one sends through the post.”

She nodded agreement, then cut off abruptly with a swipe of her hand. “You have a phoenix and house elves at your disposal. So you were worried about _me_ reading it. I suppose that’s why I’m here. Sussing me out?”

“I do not believe you would deliberately spread the secret, nor do I believe you would treat the information carelessly.” At least, not anymore. Still, he hesitated. She looked like a young child, it went against every instinct, it felt downright criminal to foul her mind with the darkest of magic, regardless that she was his source. But he was running out of options. “I need any additional insight you might have. Motivations, plans, any other possible locations.”

“Possible locations? You haven’t found them all yet?” she blinked, confused.

“I have the Cup and the Ring.”

“That’s it?” she frowned. “Was I not clear enough? The Locket is in a drawing-room in Grimmauld Place, the Diary is in Malfoy Manor. There’s one in Harry Potter’s scar and if we wait too long, it’s entirely possible that Voldemort will put another in his giant snake, Nagini.”

Nagini. That was information she had not shared before. A future Horcrux. How? She was not a seer; the form of her information was unlike any diviner Albus had encountered. She had far more certainty than her letter implied. It was a degree of expectation that only came from firsthand experience, as if she’d seen and felt them there herself.

“When I saw the Diadem was gone, I thought you must’ve had the whole hunt sorted, I – wait. You don’t have the Diadem? He left it right here, in the school. The Room of Requirement, on the seventh floor across from Barmy Barney, in the room of lost or hidden things, near a vanishing cabinet? No?” Her voice climbed higher with every word.

How incredibly _specific_.

Seers are vague and always correct, but often not in ways you’d expect. Bonnici’s knowledge was fallible and human. It was accurate in some cases but flawed in others. And so detailed – that was the unique element.

His measurements confirmed her knowledge. Dark soul magic leaves a stain that is hard to wipe out. The traces remained, though the objects did not.

“The Diadem is not in the castle. Do you know where it might have gone? In your letter, there was speculation about Albania.” The absence of the foul object was far, far worse than its presence and his stomach twisted just thinking about it. He didn’t know where it was, and neither, it appeared, did she. Albus had hoped she’d have more options, but her confidence in the accuracy of her locations, conversely, meant that she had no other likely alternatives.

“That was a bit of narrative to get in character. You know, for credibility,” she blushed and cleared her throat. “I only mentioned Albania because the rest of Voldemort is there, and I was hoping you’d fix that before he gets his body back, and starts killing people, and – no, no, no. This is all wrong. It was supposed to be over by now – happily ever after – the end,” she buried her head in her hands. “I just want to learn magic in peace.”

His heart ached and he said gently, “The thing most people don’t realise about peace, is it takes a lot of hard work to maintain. If we stop striving to improve, society will slide back into the cycle of fear and fighting.”

“I guess it was wishful thinking to imagine I could delegate every problem and call it job done,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “I don’t understand. How could they move? One might be an accident. Maybe some student just wandered off with the Diadem. But the Locket behind the Black family wards? The Diary in the Manor? That’s deliberate. Someone is trying to take the lot.”

“I do not know if the Diary was moved. I have not reached its hiding place.”

Miss Bonnici raised her head, brow furrowed. “Really? I thought that’d be one of the easier ones.”

Evidently, she’d never tried to pass through the Malfoy wards. It was used as a fortress in several wars for a reason. A team of goblins could break in, were it not both conspicuous and in violation of a dozen peace treaties. Legal avenues were closed, too. Lucius Malfoy currently held too much sway in the Ministry; accusations and search warrants refused to stick to him. The next election might open more avenues. “Malfoy Manor is not so readily accessible.”

“Fine. At least the Locket and the Diadem. Two walkabout Horcruxes is still two too many to be an accident,” she stared aimlessly at his desk for a long moment, then she shook herself and sat up straight, and her voice came out stronger. “What about the Black house elf? Was Kreacher there?”

“There was no sign of him.”

“He wouldn’t leave on his own,” she said to herself. “Did Sirius dismiss him?”

“No. Nor could the elf be summoned,” Albus said. That had not been a fun activity to propose when Sirius was already so cross with him.

“Dead, then. And you didn’t find his remains. They might’ve been moved – hidden,” she inferred with almost callous practicality. Albus’ mind flashed from Tim Riddle and the boy’s disregard of life lesser than his own, to the girl’s hobby of pinning insects. Albus tried to see the warning signs but he couldn’t convince his feelings they were there. His mind kept offering up excuses – that his biases were colouring his perception, she just chose her words poorly, she didn’t _feel_ like a sociopath. But hadn’t wishful thinking always been his greatest weakness?

“And only the Locket was missing from the house? It wasn’t ransacked?”

“Yes,” Albus nodded. “They knew what they were looking for. If they were willing to kill Kreacher, I doubt their intentions were good.” The Horcrux hunter was at least competition, and very likely an enemy. How had it come to this? In a few short weeks, Albus had figured out the identity of the Informant, only to uncover a new mystery person, this one worse than the last. The girl understood the seriousness of the situation. Albus lent the full weight of his concern behind his voice, “So, we come full circle. Who else knows about the Horcruxes?”

She tapped her fingers on his desk, thinking hard. “Regulus Black knew about the Locket. He died getting it to Grimmauld Place.” Ah, that explained why her smokescreen was so convincing. “And Voldemort knows where he placed them all, of course. If this is Voldemort’s doing and he doesn’t find the Cup and the Ring where he expects, he’s going to go ballistic.”

She shot up, sending the chair screeching backwards. Pacing occupied her feet while her hands twisted her robes until her knuckles turned white. 

“Or – or this could be the Worst-Case Scenario. The Horcruxes are sentient. They possess a person and create a fully autonomous time-capsule Voldemort. They’ve got all his memories up until they were created, including knowledge of previous Horcruxes. One Horcrux could collect the others and just make them harder to find or create multiple new Voldemorts to deal with,” she explained brusquely. “I don’t think it’s possible for the Horcrux to take control of Harry, but you should make sure he’s okay. The Diadem and the Locket were the latest Voldemort created; the Diary is a minor inconvenience in comparison, it was made first – it won’t know where the others are. But you took the Cup and the Ring out of the picture, so at most we’ve got three gone walkabout. Wait, four – the actual Voldemort is still out there.”

The words penetrated the ringing in his ears, but oh he wished they wouldn’t. Albus was only one man. He could not be in four places at once. He could not fight four wizards of Tom Riddle’s calibre. His heart hammered, his chest felt too tight but that – that was something he could control.

He slowed his breathing. He must appear strong. Such was the burden of leadership, or perhaps the privilege. He could bolster the hopes of so many people and it was those masses, together, that would have to power to fight the darkness.

“This is bad. This is really, really bad,” the girl said, eyeing him askance, as if she’d forgotten how to emphasise strong emotions without swearing. If she gave in to the urge, Albus thought the situation warranted a case of selective deafness.

“It is grave news,” Albus said, tempering his fear into concern. “But we know the problem exists and we can work to undermine it. There’ve been no signs of Voldemort rising, yet. There is still time.”

There were so many problems they hadn’t even touched on, and that was before Albus considered what to do about young Harry. How did Miss Bonnici know so much, and more prudently, could anyone else do the same? Albus wanted to look back through her past to find any contact with Legilimens she’d had, for a start. But there would be time enough for that later. As invigorating the topic, there was no sense in driving themselves to exhaustion. It was past curfew already.

“Thank you for answering my questions, Miss Bonnici. I’m sure we both have enough new information to keep us sufficiently sleepless, but we should endeavour to drift off regardless. Shall we meet again later this week?” Albus said, running through his schedule in his head for the earliest free afternoon.

“Of course, Professor,” she said faintly, then more words fell out seemingly against her will, “You don’t want to know what I am? Why I’m here?”

“I have no doubt that the reason is thoroughly diverting. Alas, sating my curiosity is not the most pressing matter at hand.”

She was not threatening his students. Anything else was secondary. If a danger presented itself, he would address it by whatever means necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big update this time and that's my excuse for the delay - it wasn't that I got the last section wrong a dozen times and reluctantly posted what I've got after weeks of fiddling, no siree.   
Ok, be real, did I manage to convince you that Belinda was the time traveller? She’s meant to be a parody of cliched self-insert but was she too much? I was trying to raise red flags and make you roll your eyes, not make you to abandon the story in disgust.


End file.
